grief is the thing with feathers
by she frolics
Summary: A devastating tragedy brings two unlikely people together. Mary/Darcy
1. Chapter 1

**A/N** : Lurker/Newbie here who finally decided to stop being a coward and publish the story she's always been meaning to write. I've had this plot percolating in my brain for years, but I just thought nobody would want to read it, because it represents a departure from canon (even though I will try to render the characters accurately). I know for some, any other endgame but Darcy/Lizzy is blasphemy, so I completely understand if many will not want to try it out. In the end I decided that I wanted to read the story, so why not write it for myself? And maybe some of you will join me. If you do, please be gentle with me, I'm only an admirer of Austen (and of many other excellent writers on this platform) but I could never rival her craft. Thanks for reading!

(p.s. the title is inspired by the collection of poetry written by max porter)

* * *

 **chapter 1: the world carries on**

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Fitzwilliam Darcy never left a blank page in his diary if he could help it. Every evening after supper, he allotted a quarter of an hour in his study for this personal record-keeping. The fact that he allowed himself only fifteen minutes to accomplish this task was a testament to his capacity for protraction and diligence. He jotted down the meaningful events of the day with a few cursory observations that always felt more general than private. He usually ended the entry with two things that needed doing the following day. He was good at adhering to this routine.

But when his wife Elizabeth abruptly died giving birth to their second child, he wrote nothing in his diary for seven months.

This was the only way he could mark the event – with absolute silence. A sea of choking white.

When he finally returned to his habit, he found he had either too much or too little to say. But seven months after his wife's untimely death, he wrote in his diary,

 _The lake has frozen over, but there isn't much snow this year. Little Fanny is looking healthy. Georgie leaves me today to return to her husband. In her place, they are sending Mary Bennet._

The first observations were true and pertinent. The last line he felt like crossing. It sounded peevish and mean, but it reflected a partial truth. His family did not believe him capable of weathering his grief on his own, though he had managed for the past months. They were afraid he would crumble without some watchful presence. Georgiana had already mourned with him for the better part of autumn and she was needed at home, where Cousin Fitzwilliam and her infant son, Arthur, required her presence. Jane Bingley seemed in worse spirits than him and Charles was tasked to console her, and neither of them could be spared anyway. Lady Catherine had written her nephew a very fine letter in which she sounded sincerely pained by the loss of a "formidable partner, notwithstanding her station". She even attended the funeral in all her faded grandeur, but she could do no more than that. Mrs. Reynolds was a good comfort during the day, but at night she left Darcy to his own devices and he traipsed from empty room to empty room in a state of restless abandon. His son, George, named after the late Mr. Darcy, was only six years old and consumed by fits of sentimental rage whenever his mother's name came up. Darcy managed to put on a brave front for him, but more often than not, he had to ask for the child to be removed so he wouldn't see his father shaken with misery.

But surely, despite this sorry state of affairs, his spirits would not be improved by having to play host to his late wife's unmarried sister. As the proclaimed spinster of the family, Mary had stayed at home to take care of her parents. She had been of vital help to her father when Mrs. Bennet had passed away the spring before last. Therefore, she had ample experience with husbands wracked with grief. It had been rather a shock to Mr. Bennet to discover that he had cared more for his wife than he had initially believed. Her "poor nerves" had won the final match between the two and now he could only submit to the strange, unexpected feeling of missing her. Mary was a great comfort to her father – another surprising discovery – and now she would apply her newly gained knowledge to another widower. She was declared by both Georgiana and Charles to be up for the task.

The well-intentioned scheme was embarrassing to Darcy. The only thing that made him accept in the end was that Mr. Bennet took it upon himself to write him, asking him to take Mary in because he was not sure if he himself would see many more springs and once the estate was passed over to his cousin, Mr. Collins, his daughter's future would be in the hands of her sisters' families. Darcy was moved by the letter and knew it was his duty to observe it, yet he still selfishly hoped that Charles could take in the remnant sister, because he did not feel capable of welcoming anyone else to Pemberley. Still, it was what Lizzy would have wanted. And her memory was now sacred to him.

Darcy dipped his quill once more and crossed out the last line in his diary. Instead he wrote,

 _Mary Bennet is to arrive at Pemberley on the 14_ _th_ _._

 _._

* * *

Mary wished it had snowed. The land was desolate, bare-boned. She removed her head from the window and fixed her eyes on the dark coach ceiling. She'd only been to Pemberley twice before: once for Georgiana's wedding and a second time on Christmas, after her nephew George was born. Both occasions had been marked with great cheer. She remembered the beautiful garlands that had been hung from every arch and beam of the ball room. She remembered a rosy-cheeked Georgiana opening the first dance with Colonel Fitzwilliam – a glorious, youthly display.

Mary remembered having envied her, as she did all women who had found a place and a person to call their own. But with the passage of time she discarded these "unhelpful" emotions. That was what she called them – unhelpful because they only increased her disappointment and distanced her from the considerable good she had in her life. She no longer felt pity for herself and her old maid's destiny. She embraced it as well as she could. After all, she never had to worry about a roof over her head, being so well connected with the Bingleys and the Darcys. Deep down, she thought she would not have been able to get along with a man as well as her sisters did. So perhaps marriage for her would have been a trial. Not that she had had a great deal of time to contemplate these things in the past two years. Two deaths in the family had dried up her tears and worn her down. The people who knew her said she was a little more "amiable" now, but this was only because her rigid resolve had been shattered. Her mother's death she had countenanced, but Lizzy's demise had seemed like the cruel whims of a foreign god. _Her_ God would not have allowed this. Lizzy had been the strongest of them all, the healthiest, the most robust. To have her cut down in her prime was senseless. Mary still prayed in the morning and at night, still believed her sister was in heaven, smiling down at all of them, but the brunt of her conviction was weaker now, lacking in fortitude. Her zeal was gone. She might not have been a handsome girl, but at least she had always been upright, standing in the midst of her shortcomings without shame. Now she was both ugly and wilted. Defeated, almost.

But she did not pity herself, no. She was simply stating a matter of fact. Perhaps in time she would stand up again.

She closed her eyes briefly and wished that time would glide like a bird in the sky – fast and without effort. When she woke up, she would be her old self again. If only such things were possible.

* * *

"Miss Bennet has settled in well. Shall I ring for tea or will you be joining her directly at supper, Sir?" Mrs. Reynolds asked with a slight reproach in her voice. Darcy knew he had been absent-minded with his sister-in-law upon arrival. He had shaken hands with her and parroted all the civilities required, but he had sounded stiff and unpracticed. Without Lizzy to coax him into social niceties, he was hopelessly lost. It did not help that Mary was shy of nature and was all too happy to stay quiet while he wracked his brains for something to say. At length, they were both reduced to silence and Mrs. Reynolds had to carry her away.

Darcy rubbed his thumb against the spine of his book. He set it aside, realizing he had not grasped much of his reading.

"Supper shall do."

Mrs. Reynolds nodded and looked at him for one more moment before turning on her heels and walking out of his study. The woman knew how to make her opinion known.

Darcy knew supper would not fare much better. Mary had looked sober and composed, as she always did - almost to a fault – but there had been something decidedly weary about her that had little to do with the exhaustion of travel. Two deaths in the family must have shaken her badly. He wondered for the first time if perhaps she minded this inconvenience just as much as he did. Perhaps she had been foisted with this duty against her will. Lizzy would have let her mind be known on the matter, but her younger sister had less gumption. Did she know that her father was sending her off without plans of return?

Darcy rose from his seat and paced in heavy thought to the western window where the last cold rays of winter painted the cornices a faint, bleeding red. He would humor this arrangement without further protestation, but in time he thought it only proper that Mary should go and stay with Jane. They would find comfort in each other. As for him, there would never be solace again.

* * *

Mary took the spinning tops offered by her nephew with a small smile.

"Thank you, George."

"That one is my favorite," he informed her in a grave voice and pointed at the yellow top that had a small crack at its centre. "It spins the fastest."

"Well then, show me how it spins," Mary beckoned him. She watched as George crouched on the nursery floor and fiddled with the top. He looked so much like Lizzy. Even his deliberate movements were a copy of her. Mary suppressed a sigh.

"Aunt Mary? Are you looking?"

"Yes, George."

The sweet, almost bashful way he called her "Aunt" made Mary feel strange. The child did not know her very well, but had accepted that she was part of the family. Still, there was something shadowed in the word, something resentful. The Aunt is here, but not the Mother.

Little Fanny was sitting on the nurse's lap, her fat little thumb in her mouth. From time to time she would make a noise like the gurgle of a river and she'd look at Mary with incomprehensive eyes. She had no notions of aunts yet, and for all she knew, the nurse was her mother. But her origins were indisputable. She resembled her father very much.

The nurse, Hannah, had more or less implied that Mr. Darcy did not come up very often. Mary could not entirely blame him. The children were a fresh reminder of loss. She felt a kind of abstract affection for them, but without Lizzy in their midst, Mary felt they were strangers.

Still, she would grow to love them better.

George raised his head all of a sudden and looked around the room, as if sensing the absence of someone important. His lower lip trembled slightly.

Mary picked up the orange spinning top. "Are you sure _this_ one isn't faster?" She'd learned from spending time with her grieving father that pointing out life's small inconsistencies to him was the best distraction.

George clenched his tiny fist against the rug. "I'm very sure, I've tried them all." But he grabbed the orange spinning top and proceeded to show his aunt the difference.

The wooden toys became a blur. And the pang inside her chest became a blur too.

.

* * *

Mary still remembered that afternoon in October when her mother had told her to stop playing the piano because Lizzy was going to marry Mr. Darcy. It felt like a century ago. Mrs. Bennet had stormed into the room with the news, startling the poor tabby cat which had found shelter at Mary's feet.

" _Lizzy_?" Mary had asked, slightly peeved. Her elder sister had refused Mr. Collins, their own cousin. She would certainly not pledge her troth to a man she did not like, even if he was rich and Mr. Bingley's friend.

"But she quite hates him. She disparaged him on several occasions," Mary insisted, thinking perhaps her mother had run off with some mad notion. But then Lizzy entered the room, looking flushed and embarrassed and happy and it was plain to see that the improbable _had_ occurred.

 _When did she find time to like him?_ Mary wondered as their father came into the room. He looked very pleased with himself. "Well, Mrs. Bennet. Have I not done well? I daresay your girls have made the best matches in the country."

It was just like him to take credit for his wife's concerns.

Mary remembered being overcome with a feeling of sadness she could not account for. She was not intimate enough with Lizzy as to ask her how she'd fallen in love with Mr. Darcy. She did not even know if _love_ was a deciding factor in the match.

When she went up to bed with Kitty that evening she felt orphaned somehow. As if she'd lost something precious.

"I wouldn't have married him for all the money in the world," her sister said, sniffing in her pillow. "He's tall and ugly and full of himself. He wouldn't ever dance with us."

Mary knew Kitty was only acting out her jealousy, but she did wonder how such a proud man would ever put up with the Bennets. To be frank, she was a little scared of him. The few times she had spent in his or his friends' company, she had felt small and stupid. She hated feeling small and stupid. She also thought he looked very severe - like a stern Roman emperor who never forgave his enemies. To please him would require an extraordinary feat. Yet Lizzy had managed it. She had charmed him. Her sister now appeared to her like a fantastical creature, endowed with mysterious powers. Mary wondered how one went about acquiring these powers. She knew no matter how many books she read to better herself, she would never possess such qualities. It often left her feeling very empty when she realized books could not provide for everything.

"Perhaps he has cousins," Kitty murmured, halfway to sleep.

Mary stayed awake until the first inklings of dawn, contemplating her sister's husband-to-be. He cast a long, ominous shadow across the chambers of her mind.

And now? Now when she walked into the dining room and greeted her brother-in-law she found that while his figure was still imposing, still Romanesque, he had lost that terrifying quality. He had become fallible and human.

She still found it difficult to converse with him because she felt that, for all his irreproachable courtesy, he did not have enough patience for her musings. He seemed even more disinclined to indulge her in his current state. But there was still more softness to him than when she had first spoken to him in the parlour at Longbourn. He had descended upon them as Lizzy's formal betrothed. Mary remembered asking him if he liked Virgil. She was very proud that she had begun reading the Eclogues. Darcy had replied that there weren't any good translations in English, which had silenced her, since she was _only_ reading him in English. He had answered her in a stark but friendly fashion, yet she had felt mortified.

Mary couldn't believe that she was now dining with him, the man who used to scare her.

"George has grown so much since I last saw him," she said after the two of them had made their way through the first course in silence. There was no one else present to dine with them, as Darcy had shunned company since the funeral.

"Yes… he benefits from exercise greatly. He will start riding lessons in the spring," Darcy replied with factual sobriety.

Mary wondered what manner of reply she should make. Eventually, she said,

"Is it not too early?"

"Too early?" he repeated, his tone flat. "No, I should think not."

Mary sipped at her watered wine and decided to leave it at that.

Darcy, at length, cleared his throat. He was trying to make an effort. "Do you yourself ride?"

Mary shook her head. "No, I never learned."

"Elizabeth –" he began and stopped shortly, looked down at his own plate. He began anew. "Elizabeth learned to ride beautifully."

"Yes, I think she mentioned it in her letters. Her favorite horse was called Blueberry."

Darcy cleared his throat. "I have made a gift of him to one of my neighbors."

"Oh..." Mary trailed off sadly. "I understand, though I would've liked to meet him."

"There are other horses," Darcy said abruptly. "If you wish to learn, one of my grooms would be more than happy to assist –"

"Oh, no," Mary said quickly, her tone betraying panic. "That's not necessary. That is, thank you, but no."

"Very well," he said, feeling foolish for suggesting it. "Do you still play the piano?"

"Not as much as I used to," she replied mournfully.

Darcy said nothing. They were a fine match; two people ill-equipped at conversation.

No other subject bore much fruit. They exchanged some tepid remarks about the frozen lake, with the promise that she might see it soon. But it went no further than that. They ate in silence, the clatter of their forks and knives making conversation in their place.

Mary would have retired to her room once the meal was finished, but she had promised Jane she would make some kind of effort. Therefore, when Darcy made the civil but very insubstantial invitation to join him the drawing room, she said yes. He did not manage to hide his displeasure at having his evening confiscated, but he consoled himself with the notion that they could both sit and read. He remembered Mary spent hours in his library whenever the Bennets came to stay at Pemberley.

Mary was happy to pick up one of the available volumes in the drawing room cabinet, left behind precisely for such an occasion. She buried her head behind a book on the Peloponnesian War and said not a word for the length of an hour. This suited Darcy well, as he made more progress with his own volume of natural history.

Still, there was something strange and stultified in the atmosphere. He felt her presence as a kind of imposition, even though she did not make a sound except for the rustling of pages. Perhaps, oddly, he would have preferred her to chatter, to be like her younger sisters and fill his head with nonsense.

An interruption came, eventually, when Mrs. Reynolds brought more candles. She stopped to ask Mary about Longbourn and the health of her father.

Darcy watched as Mary's brow smoothed out. She looked almost ill-tempered when she read. Her face was a strange study for him. There was little of Lizzy in her, but he tried not to dwell on her plainness. What did he care for beauty anyway?

When time came for them to bid goodnight, he felt a little chagrined knowing they would go on exchanging these empty pleasantries for the foreseeable future.

Before Mary took leave, she told him she would go say goodnight to George and Fanny.

Darcy had not intended to do the same, but he felt rather shamed into it now. He usually reserved a short amount of time for his children in the morning, because the task was rather taxing to him, but he decided to change his habit on this occasion.

He waited for Mary to retire before going upstairs.

Upon seeing his father, George did not want to go to bed anymore. He sat up, eyes brimming with excitement and began to tell him the stories he had made up while playing with his soldiers and horses. He told him about the spinning tops too.

"Aunt Mary didn't believe me. She though the orange one was faster than the yellow. But I showed her."

Darcy stroked his son's hair absently. He felt and heard Lizzy in his voice and it cut him to the quick, as it always did. He should not have come up here. He rather blamed it on Mary.

"Father, do you know when Mummy's coming back?"

Darcy looked down at his son. George had asked the question innocently enough, no hint of tears or petulance in his expression. But Darcy knew this was only the calm before the storm.

"You already know the answer, George. You must be brave, like I told you," he replied sternly, trying to inspire the boy. George's eyes shone wetly in disbelief.

Darcy called the nurse into the room.

"Now, you had best listen to Hannah and go to bed or you will not be allowed outside tomorrow."

Hannah nodded eagerly. "Yes, Master George. We must be good and go to sleep now."

Darcy could hear his inconsolable cries as the nursery door shut behind him. But he could do nothing to remedy them. He felt the temptation to weep himself, but he fought against it. He was not safe in his solitude anymore. There was his new guest to contend with.

He attempted to start several diary entries that evening, but not a single one satisfied him.

In the end, he wrote tersely,

 _The world carries on._

And it did. It would, whether he liked it or not.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Wow, I honestly did not expect all this feedback, thank you! I am very grateful for your input. I wanted to mention what I should have said in the first chapter, which is that this story will take some creative license and veer away from the laws and mores of the time. As some of you mentioned, this is fiction and we can explore certain things that may not be that tenable in real life. Also, some of you also argued that there are grounds for this relationship to work even within the legal parameters of that time, but just to be safe, let's agree that we're ignoring legal stipulations. I completely understand if some of you will not be comfortable with this, but I appreciate those that wish to continue on this journey. Thank you for all your encouragements!

* * *

 **chapter 2: it can do no harm**

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"That's a fib! They can't all fit inside!" little George protested with a puckered mouth, though his eyes glinted with interest.

Mary picked up his wooden horse. "It wasn't the entire Greek army. Only a few strong men. The point was to get inside the walls and open the gates from within." And she clumsily pushed the horse through the opening in the "fortress" George had constructed out of his building blocks.

"Careful!" he cried out when she accidentally knocked down one of the sentries.

"He's all right," Mary said, picking up the soldier and placing him upright on the fortress wall.

She smiled apologetically and George's lips twisted into a shy grin.

"I like this story, even if it's silly," he pronounced himself eventually. "Where are the Trojans now? Are they in England?"

"Oh, no, they never came here. The histories say they lived in Asia Minor."

"What's that?"

"It's a region, part of the Ottoman Empire now."

"Why is it Minor? And what's an ottoman? Is it the funny-looking stool?"

Mary swept the wrinkles from her dress. Her legs were falling asleep, but she was loth to get up from the floor. George seemed to dislike it when he had to look up at her. She felt out of her depth with all his questions, though she remembered being just as inquisitive when she was a child and having Mr. and Mrs. Bennet dismiss her out of hand.

"Well, the stool did come from the Ottoman Empire. But I'd need a map to show you the region," she replied.

"Yes, but where _are_ the Trojans?" George insisted impishly.

Mary took hold of his little hand. "I will show you, I promise."

"You won't. You won't show me. You'll leave, just like Mummy," he said, still playfully, though his eyes blinked very fast.

Mary squeezed his fingers. "I won't leave."

"You can't be sure," George argued with a spark of maturity that defied his age. And then, as children often do, he quickly changed gears. "Will the Tudor tell me stories about Trojans too? I'd like that."

"The Tudor?" Mary asked askance.

"The man with the letters and the books and the maps. He's going to come and teach me things and I must sit with him and be nice for _hours_. That's what Hannah says."

"Oh," Mary shook her head with a smile. "You mean the tutor."

"No, he's called a Tudor," George insisted, yanking his hand out of her grasp.

"When is this… _Tudor_ supposed to come?" Mary obliged him.

"Hannah said he'll come very soon unless I learn my letters with _her_. But she's got bad eyesight and anyway she didn't tell me about the Trojans."

Mary mused on this for a few moments.

"Then, you'd like for him to come and teach you?"

"No!" he cried out suddenly and his left arm flew high, knocking down the ramparts of his fortress.

"Why not?" Mary insisted.

"He's a _Tudor_ and a stranger and I don't want him!"

"Then who _would_ you want?"

The question took George by surprise. He'd been just about ready to throw a tantrum. But now he reconsidered. He regarded his aunt with faint suspicion.

"I can choose?"

Mary chewed on her lip. It was not in her authority to say so, but she wanted to hear his answer. She nodded encouragingly.

"Then no one! I don't want anyone to teach me," and he felt so proud of his answer that he dissolved into giggles on the floor.

Mary smiled. The boy was clever, just like Lizzy.

"What about me?" she suddenly asked. She had only considered the possibility vaguely, but she saw now that this could be a useful occupation for the duration of her stay. She hated being useless.

George frowned and his brow crinkled comically, like an old man's would.

"Will you tell me about Alice Minor?"

Mary smiled again. "Of course."

"And you won't leave like Mummy?"

Mary squeezed her fingers in her lap. Truth be told, she did not know how long she was staying. Perhaps it was unwise to promise him things.

"I will do my best not to."

George found the answer rather lacking. His shoulders sagged and he lay down on the floor and spread his arms like a bird. "I don't want a Tudor."

"I won't be a Tudor. I'm not a man, you see."

George giggled and spread his arms wider and moved his legs at the same time. "Am I a man, Auntie?"

"You will be someday."

"I don't want to! I don't want to!" he cried out, equal parts happy and mournful.

Mary rose with some difficulty. "We all must grow up sometime."

"Not me! Not me! I won't be a Tudor! I'll be a Trojan!"

Hannah opened the nursery door and glanced furtively inside. Mary realized guiltily that George was being rather loud. Was that her fault? Had she bestirred him too much? She could not tell.

Hannah came in and picked him up. It was time for him to have his bath.

Mary left the nursery reluctantly. The rest of the house was devoid of warmth. But she resolved to speak to Darcy about the tutor. She stopped by one of the arched windows in the hallway and glanced at the caravan of clouds weighing down upon the horizon. It was now almost a week since she had arrived at Pemberley and the weather had not improved greatly. Nor had the spirits in the house. Every corner seemed to whisper her sister's name and at night, Mary swore she could hear her sister's lively voice in the other room, sharing confidences with Jane. It was only a trick of the mind, she knew, but it was strange that Lizzy's memory had not been as vivid at Longborn as it was here. No wonder the place summoned such painful memories for her widowed husband.

.

* * *

Darcy stared at the printed word without seeing anything of actual substance. The letters looked like insects which were trying to crawl off the page. He could not set his mind on any subject. He lowered the newspaper with a heavy sigh.

He almost gave a start. Mary was standing there like an immaterial apparition with her face turned towards the shelves.

Darcy cleared his throat and made to rise. He wondered how she had got into the library without him hearing a thing. He was suddenly reminded of a silver fox he had hunted many years before with his father. The fox had been so adept at slipping through their fingers, some of the servants had thought it was enchanted. He shook his head. For some peculiar reason, youthful memories came to him more often now that he felt like an old man.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Mary said quickly, giving a short and unnecessary curtsy. "I did not wish to disturb you. I saw you were reading."

"You shouldn't have waited to speak to me," he said, feeling a mixture of puzzlement and irritation. She had not become accustomed to him, and he had not become accustomed to her.

Mary inhaled sharply, as if drawing up courage. "I wanted to ask you about George's tutor. He mentioned it to me."

"Oh." Darcy wanted little reminder of the business. "Yes, I have been speaking to a German gentleman who would like to come and teach him. It's better than sending him off to school. Elizabeth – she did not wish him to leave for school so early."

Mary shook her head vehemently. "That would be terrible, indeed."

Darcy shrugged, slightly peeved by her tone. "I was sent to school at an early age and I got by fairly well."

Mary digested the information with some difficulty. "It must have been hard, at first."

"At first, perhaps," he muttered, staring down, eager to change the subject. "In any case, I am not expecting the gentleman until the spring."

"In that case, I was thinking that I might tutor George until he comes."

" _You_?" Darcy raised his head. He was well and truly astonished. "Forgive me, but certainly not. You are family."

"Then that recommends me," Mary replied, while the color in her cheeks became more apparent. She was too shy for this kind of speech, but she was persevering anyway.

"I do not doubt your abilities in the matter, Mary, but I do not wish to abuse your status. You are my relation, not my governess."

"Of course I would not be your governess. I am George's aunt and I am very happy to occupy my time with his education," she persisted, a little out of breath.

"I do not think it right –"

"Perhaps – perhaps we could ask George," she offered peaceably.

"Ask George? Ask him what?"

"Ask him if he'd like me to teach him."

"One cannot ask a young child about such things," Darcy protested.

Mary nodded wanly, though she had often wished when _she_ was a child that someone had consulted her opinion. Often times, if you grow accustomed to being ignored, you start to think your opinion is not worthy of consulting.

Darcy regarded her severely. "Well, I can tell you want to say more, so please do."

"I…" she began meekly. "This is a difficult time for him. I feel that George would appreciate it if he was asked."

 _A difficult time_. The euphemism struck him in the face like a pointed jab. Since Lizzy's death, his temper had suffered erosions and he was almost tempted to tell Mary that he would raise George according to his best judgement and not hers, but that would have been cruel and unmannered. He was growing to be loathsome to himself. He mastered his breath and clasped his hands behind his back.

"Very well, we shall ask him. And if he is so inclined…you may pursue this plan, temporarily."

"It can do no harm, I think," she replied with a trace of a smile.

Darcy was familiar with a lot of things that did no harm and which still inconvenienced him, but he said nothing. In truth, he couldn't understand why he was so opposed to the idea.

Only later, after she left the library, did he wonder if he felt that her intrusion was yet another proof that his Lizzy was well and truly gone.

* * *

Mary privately cheered when George proclaimed loudly to his father that his "Auntie" had to finish the story of the Trojans and she would therefore need to be his "Tudor" for the foreseeable future.

She was afraid that she had vexed Darcy with what he deemed her governess scheme. He certainly did not look too pleased when George rushed towards Mary and grabbed onto her skirts. In fact, he took hold of his son's hand and directed him towards Hannah. It was a strange little episode, made more unusual by Darcy's proximity. Standing next to him, she could see he was trying hard to preserve a certain kind of dignity in front of George. It made her wonder.

But she was determined to be as useful as possible for the remaining months of her stay. If she could not console her brother-in-law, she might do the children some good. Little Fanny was only a babe, but George could benefit from her lessons. A part of her was still the proud old Mary, stubbornly convinced that she was a well-read young woman of moderate good taste. Another part of her knew she was doing this to alleviate the loneliness of Pemberley. The beautiful, lavish house was a desolate place when one had so much time to oneself.

* * *

In the following days, Darcy felt he ought to make amends for his ill conduct in the library. Perhaps he had been unfair to Mary. Lizzy would certainly think so. He pondered the matter over supper but could not make up his mind on the course of action. Mary was sitting quietly across from him, staring into her bowl as if it held a mysterious sway.

Darcy wished she would look up more often, be more of a presence. It was difficult to speak to her when she was so quiet.

Then again, she was not _that_ quiet. She had not given up her case, even when he had shown himself to be contrary.

He did not know how to begin his appeal. Without Elizabeth, all the standard pleasantries of discourse shriveled in his mouth.

"Are you – faring well, Mary?" he asked uneasily.

She looked up with a troubled expression on her face. "I am in good health. I hope I do not look ill."

Darcy cursed under his breath. He had not meant it like that, but he could never chance upon the right tone.

"No, you do not. I only meant – is there something I might do for you?"

Mary seemed alarmed by the suggestion. "You are very gracious, but I require nothing."

 _She requires nothing_ , he thought grimly. _Except my peace of mind._

But that was not fair.

"I'm afraid I haven't been a very amenable host," he tried again. "Is there nothing I may do, really?"

He thought she would wave off his solicitude once more, but instead, she leaned her head forward in a meditative pose. She was considering his offer. Darcy was not so sure he should have made it.

"Perhaps you might accompany us to church this Sunday. That is, Mrs. Reynolds and I."

"Oh…" Darcy felt ashamed. Not because he had stopped frequenting the old abbey, but because he had completely forgotten about such needs. He had become solipsistic, locked away in his study, trying to forget the world. He was mortified. Mary required a good carriage for her attendance and he had not provided one. He had not even known she had left the house with Mrs. Reynolds. He had thought she would use their private chapel for praying.

"Last Sunday we rode with Stephen, the groom, and Mr. Berkley. I believe he's one of your tenants. We took one of the old carriages. I hope you do not mind."

" _Mind_? I should have provided you with far better equipage. I am dreadfully sorry," he said, feeling the full effect of his ignorance.

"Oh no, please - do not blame yourself for anything. We were quite comfortable," Mary eagerly assured him. "Mrs. Reynolds provided us with very thick quilts."

Darcy shook his head. He spoke more to himself. "It is unpardonable that I should have left matters in such disarray…"

Mary did not know how to assuage him. She thought about her father and what he would like to hear on such occasions. Mr. Bennet appreciated a good turn of phrase, a witticism that concealed depth.

She inhaled. "Perhaps…perhaps it would be _more_ unpardonable if you were perfectly in control of the run of things. It would show…a lack of feelings."

Darcy stared at her for a moment. He seemed to be looking through her, while at the same time searching for something in her features.

"That may be so," he said at length. "But I have been negligent. I shall accompany you to church on Sunday."

Judging by his remorseful tone, he planned on accompanying her every Sunday henceforth and this lifted her spirits greatly, for she felt that this is what Lizzy would have wanted.

 _It can do no harm. It can only do good_ , she thought, not realizing she was repeating herself.

But this would be the overarching purpose of her stay at Pemberley, she decided.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: I'm sorry for coming so late with this update, but I hope you'll enjoy it. I make the same mention that this story is a bit of an oddball (like Mary herself) and I completely understand not wanting to go on reading if it's not your cup of tea. I hope I can make these characters and their bond believable. Thank you for reading! (and thank you to Atka-Jane and many others for encouraging me to update!)

* * *

 **chapter 3: as if a distant sea was becalmed**

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Sitting bundled up opposite Fitzwilliam Darcy in the stately family carriage was a strange experience for Mary Bennet. There was not enough space for her to feel comfortable attempting conversation. For one thing, her tongue was heavy with sleep and her eyes had not yet got accustomed to the winter light. The truth was, she was not an early bird in any sense of the word, but she had always been the first to rise on a Sunday ever since she was a child. She believed God had given her a weakness for sleep to keep her on her toes, to see if she would shirk her church-going duties. She did not.

Still, this meant that she was never very cogent until after ten in the morning. It was hard enough to come up with clever remarks when she was wide awake, but attempting one now would have been tantamount to self-immolation. So she stayed quiet and sleepy, staring out the window or down at her knees, trying to avoid looking straight at Darcy's downturned mouth.

She suspected he was now reconsidering his promise to join her for observance every Sunday, though it was only right that a man should eventually return to civilization and God.

Oh, but what if he developed an ill humor like Mr. Bennet? What if he said he was happy to attend, but privately scorned her, as was her father's wont? Mr. Bennet always peppered his Sunday attendances with subtle ironies which went unnoticed by Mrs. Bennet but gave Mary a great deal of pain.

She was fretting in vain.

Far from being put out, Darcy was partly amused, partly ashamed. Amused that his sister-in-law seemed more sleep-prone than little George himself. And ashamed that he had not accompanied her sooner. When he observed the landscape through the misty window, he was reminded of his neglected domain, the outhouses, the tenants' lodgings, the rooftops of the dairy farm - all which required repairs come spring time. Then there was the issue of clearing the woods which abutted the hunting grounds. Though they were not yet overgrown, they looked quite unkempt. His poor steward had tried to do as much as he could without his master's counsel, but Darcy could see it had not been enough. He realized that one reason he had stopped going to church - or anywhere else for that matter - was to avoid change. He wanted to leave the outside world unaltered, as if Lizzy still lived in it. An empty sort of loyalty.

Darcy suppressed a sigh and turned to Mary, who was busying herself with the hot brick at her feet.

"May I be of assistance?" he asked, leaning forward solicitously, but she rose too quickly and her elbow nearly grazed his jaw.

"Oh, I'm so sorry! Please pardon my clumsiness, I did not mean to injure you!"

"It's quite all right, you did not –"

"I am terribly sorry, indeed I was not paying attention!" she continued, mortified. No matter how much he assured her there was no harm done, Mary Bennet kept apologizing all the way to the church gate.

Darcy was beginning to understand why Lizzy had sometimes complained of having _too_ many sisters.

But he smiled to himself. Even irritation could be a form of distraction.

It was no smiling matter for Mary.

In fact, her expression during the sermon was one of terrible affliction. He could read in her profile that she was internally punishing herself for her maladroitness. Her eyes were focused entirely on the pulpit, but her gaze was absent.

Darcy hesitated. He was tempted to put his fingers on her arm, to let her know it was quite all right. But he felt suddenly exhausted and unable to comfort anyone but himself. The walk to the family pew had been a trial. The congregation's gaze had been fixed on him and, no doubt, once the service was done, many a good person would come up to him to pay their respects.

Yet he tried to set his mind on higher things. He tried to think of a better world, a better time.

Mary held her book of prayers open in her lap but she seemed to know each word by heart. Her lips moved almost unconsciously. He envied her untarnished belief in a just God. He wished she could lend him but an ounce of her conviction. He might do much with an ounce.

* * *

"I must beg you again to forgive me for my misstep earlier, it was unconsciously done–"

Darcy almost sloshed the tea in his cup. He settled the rattling cup down on the saucer.

"Mary, if you apologize one more time, I shall say something very ungentlemanly, I'm afraid."

They were taking a bit of fortifying tea and cakes in the drawing room after the rather exhausting morning at the abbey. So many parishioners had crowded around him to wish him well, Darcy was leeched of power. His head was also throbbing from a terrible headache.

"I – I'm sorry, Sir, I sense you are vexed –"

"Mary, I am only vexed because you will not stop humbling yourself. Now if you please. Or I might change my mind about George's tutoring, after all."

Mary's face turned white with apprehension. "You – but we have already agreed upon it, and little George would be disappointed–"

Darcy shook his head, a smile wrenched from his lips despite his headache. "I am only teasing you."

His sister-in-law exhaled softly in relief. "Oh, oh yes. Of course you are. I am – that is, I don't always catch on so quickly. I'm sorry. Truly, I am."

Darcy couldn't believe it. He leaned forward with a scowl. "Now, Mary, you will not start apologizing about this too -!"

But the young woman shook her head with a nervous, yet impish smile.

"Ah, now _you_ are teasing me," he realized with a small chuckle. "Well done."

Mary inclined her head. She had learned to cope with Mr. Bennet after all, and there was no sharper tongue in the country.

"I shall go see George for an hour and then perhaps I may use your library?" she asked, not meaning to presume.

Darcy nodded. "Certainly you may. Should we intersect there, you must not shy away from resuming your reading."

He had need to mention this last article, for many a times Mary had been seen leaving the library for his sake.

"I do not wish to disturb you –"

"I have my study if I do not wish to be disturbed. That is where I undertake most of my work." _Though_ , he thought shamefully, _I have neglected much of it._

"Then I thank you for your generosity."

Darcy frowned to himself. She stood so much on formality, even though she had the capacity to be personable. There were bursts here and there of a friendlier Mary, but she often suppressed them. Or perhaps this _was_ her way of showing friendship – halting and unsure. It reminded him of himself at a younger age.

She slipped away from his presence as she often did, unheard.

After she was gone, his headache only got worse.

* * *

Mary raised her eyes from her book. She was finding _The Fool of Quality_ to be a little too sentimental and plodding for her taste, but it had been recommended to her by Anne Debourgh in one of her rare letters to the Bennets, and she was determined to give it a chance.

Yet she could not in good conscience continue with it when she saw that Mr. Darcy was sitting in his corner very miserably, holding his head in his hand, staring at the page before him in visible anguish. At first she was afraid that a pang of grief had overcome him, but the more she stared at him – surreptitiously, over the spine of her book – the more she realized it was physical pain. A headache. Her mother, God rest her soul, had suffered of them daily. Except, Mrs. Bennet had liked to announce her ails for all the house to hear. Mr. Darcy was steadfastly quiet.

Mary wondered what she might do. She suspected that the reason why he did not simply retire to rest was because he did not wish to capitulate to this pain. And perhaps he did not wish to be alone with it.

Should she begin a conversation to distract him? Should she tell him about the games she had played with George? She looked about the library, helpless. Then she remembered something - something Mr. Bennet liked for her to do in moments such as these.

"This book is not very engaging, I'm afraid," she said out loud, closing it shut with a soft thud.

Darcy raised his eyes reluctantly. "Is it not?"

"It was recommended to me by your cousin, and I am sorry to disagree with her, but I cannot find instruction or pleasure in it." She hoped she was not being needlessly hyperbolic and thus insulting Miss Debourgh. She had never been good at diversions.

"My cousin," he echoed. It took him a moment to realize of whom she was speaking. His head throbbed incessantly. " _Ah_. Then you must choose something better from my collection."

"Well – I am sure your book must be vastly superior. Might you read from it, Sir?"

Darcy could hardly read in silence, the words kept running aground before him. He was about to make excuses for himself, when he saw Mary suddenly rise with trepidation.

"Actually, perhaps _I_ might read from it out loud, for our mutual benefit."

The surprise on his face must have shown clearly, yet when he saw her advance towards him with purpose, he could do nothing but relinquish the book to her. He wondered to himself, _am I so feeble now that I must be read to?_

He could not deny that in this case a second pair of eyes was welcome. But her little ruse stung him to a certain degree.

Mary did not notice his unease. She drew her chair closer to his and sat down. She looked over the title briefly – a rather dry essay on natural philosophy– and cleared her throat.

He did not know what to expect exactly from one whose speech was always a little tremulous when voicing her opinions, but the steadiness of her voice surprised him for a second time.

It was as if a distant sea was becalmed and the wind ceased to rattle the windows. She was completely in command as she read. There was a rhythm to it, not monotonous yet constant. She did not vary, nor did she hesitate. He had to commend her, despite her stratagem.

He remembered a time when he had read out loud with Elizabeth. They were brief interludes, for both preferred to read in silence, and neither had a great deal of patience or possessed very good oration for that matter.

But he did not mind listening to Mary, not at all.

His misgivings gave way and, eventually, he settled in his seat and let the words wash over him. Her cadence lulled him into a sense of quiet. His headache subsided a little.

It was clear to him that, no matter what kind of reading, Mary enjoyed going over the letters, for she kept at it for almost an hour. Here she was mistress of herself, because she felt comfortable. Time seemed to pass amiably for both of them. They did not speak or even look at each other. There was only the sound of her voice and the clouded, yet unperturbed stream of his thoughts.

Darcy did not know how to phrase his compliment when the reading was done. "I – thank you, Mary. You were a most eloquent reader. You have done me a very good turn."

 _Done me a very good turn_ , he thought to himself. _How perfectly stupid of you._

But Mary did not seem to notice his maladroitness. "I am happy to oblige, Sir, and I would like to do it again, if I may."

Her face was flushed with the sort of simple, domestic pleasure that was no longer simple for him. Her eyes too were enlivened.

He felt a stab of envy once again, but this time it was tempered by genuine regard for her. "Certainly, I would be very grateful."

He wished he could tell her to stop calling him 'Sir', but he did not know how else she might address him. He could not imagine Mary calling him simply 'Darcy', or 'Brother', and 'Fitzwilliam' was out of the question. It had also been Lizzy's dying word to him, but he did not allow himself to think on it.

They sat there together in a strange manner of suspension, neither knowing what to say or do next. Yet the feeling was not discomfort, not exactly.

It was a good thing Mrs. Reynolds came in to announce supper.


End file.
